Fallen angels touch my muse’s wings
As two swans look through a pane, beaks reaching.
Death is our bride or bridegroom… Seems it teaches
That raw fingers make life’s guitar sing.
Death is Satan, not a blind maid
For he craves life, precious and dear.
Greedy jaws where hopes disappear
And desires die out squashed by fate.
If we had, but extra hundred years
To unlock the mind’s filigree
And to gift our love, unmeasured by life’s tears
To evolve, in mind and body – free.
Yet we weave the finest feeling chains
So that others’ll cry for us one final rain.